


With The Changing Years

by Fire_Sign



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: F/M, Gen, MFMM Year of Quotes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-01
Updated: 2018-03-01
Packaged: 2019-03-25 15:39:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13837839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fire_Sign/pseuds/Fire_Sign
Summary: Elizabeth MacMillan is nine years old when she first meets the Fisher girls.





	With The Changing Years

**Author's Note:**

> L. M. Montgomery as this month's Year of Quotes theme has made me far too happy, not gonna lie. And what says kindred spirits like Mac and Phryne?

_“Kindred spirits alone do not change with the changing years.”_  
― L.M. Montgomery, Anne of the Island

* * *

Elizabeth MacMillan is nine years old when she first meets the Fisher girls. Her mother clucks and calls them ‘Those poor little waifs’—the MacMillans do not have much in the way of worldly goods, but they have their pride—but Mac is more intrigued than sympathetic. It’s only a few days later when she sees the girls again, the older one nicking an apple from the fruit stand; she knows, really, that stealing is wrong, but the girls are clearly hungry, and Mac… well, Mac is curious. It is a trait that will lead her into trouble, or so her mother says. 

Mac watches in horror as the girl reaches for an orange this time and the man catches her—a grasped wrist and a tug, and despite her better judgment Mac moves forward to intervene. She has a few pennies for sweets, a Saturday treat, but she can always… she needn’t have bothered, because the girl twists and kicks and shouts “Run!” at the younger one, and the two of them leg it down the road. 

Mac continues her walk; it’s only an hour later, when the sweets have been purchased and consumed and she is on her way home, that she sees the girls again. They are sitting on a crate in an alley, the dark-haired one examining her knee with a great deal of interest. Even at a distance she can see the injury needs attention.

“You ought to have a doctor look at that,” she calls, heading down the alley.

“Ain’t got no money for a doctor,” the girl calls back, grinning. “And I ‘ad worse.”

Mac rolls her eyes. She’d heard enough men coming to her mother with the same claim, looking to be patched up after too many hours at the pub.

“Let me see,” she says bossily, pulling a handkerchief from the pocket of her dress.

The girl offers her leg and Mac does her best to clean the blood away. Then she secures the fabric around the knee and attempts to appear firm—she’s got a feeling it’s a lost cause with this girl, but she figures she may as well try.

“That needs to be cleaned out properly when you go home,” she says. “And you can keep the handkerchief.”

Mac’s mother won’t be impressed she’s lost her new handkerchief, but she’ll understand when she explains. The girl nods, bending her leg experimentally before leaping off the crate. 

“Phryne,” says the girl, “and that there is Janey.”

“Elizabeth,” Mac says, not quite certain whether she wants to invite this strange child to call her by her nickname. 

This Phryne—and what a peculiar name it is, for an equally peculiar girl—looks at her, and Mac suspects that all her reservations have been seen and noted. But there’s a curiosity there too, and a slyness. She pulls an apple from her frock, and offers it to Mac.

“Payment,” she explains. “For patching me leg.”

“I thought…”

Phryne shrugs, giving a cheeky smile. “You didn’t think I’d be careless enough to get caught on the first one, didya? I got enough for all of us.”

Doubtful, Mac reaches for the apple; it is smooth and heavy in her hand, and delightfully crisp when she bites into it. The Fisher girls take bites of their own, and the three of them exchange a conspiratorial look.

“You may as well call me Mac,” she says, and hopes she doesn’t come to regret it.

* * *

Mac knows a lot of things, and many of them are about Phryne Fisher. She knows Phryne is clever and fast and loyal, the best friend someone like her could ask for. She knows Phryne is brave and resourceful and has never met a rule she was unwilling to challenge. She knows that Phryne could win a fight against almost any boy in Collingwood, though she is more likely to disarm them with a kiss. Usually.

She presses the towel to Phryne’s nose, encouraging her to tilt her head back.

“What was it this time?” she asks.

Phryne is furious, practically spitting her words, her voice muffled and pinched.

“Eddie bloody James.” 

“Ahh,” says Mac, “say no more.”

She knows a great many things about Phryne Fisher, but first among them is that carries her missing sister like an open wound, and she has no time for anyone who lays the blame at her feet. She blames herself more than enough. 

Mac pulls the towel away, deciding that the the bleeding has stemmed for the moment; there is no such simple solution for the look in Phryne’s eyes. 

“Next time,” she says, knowing there will be a next time, “wait until I’m there. Two is better than one.”

* * *

There’s been a half a war since Mac last saw Phryne, but when her friend shows up at her tiny London flat with a black eye and a split lip it’s like no time has passed at all. The bruises are yellow and mottled, but Mac hurries her inside anyway, sitting her in the little chair by the window that Mac uses for studying and taking stock of the injuries. 

“This was more than once,” she says in slow horror, cataloguing the ages of the bruises. “Who was it?”

“A man,” says Phryne, a little too dully for Mac’s comfort; life has never thwarted Phryne Fisher before, and damn if she was going to let some bastard with a bad temper win out.

“A coward,” Mac says firmly, moving her examination to Phryne’s ribs. “Does it hurt if I—”

There’s a hiss of pain and Phryne clenches her fists. Mac pulls her hands away, feeling them tremble slightly—in sadness or in rage, she’s not entirely certain. Both, perhaps. 

“They aren’t broken, but those are some deep bruises. I want you to take it easy for at least a week, possibly two.”

“Two! You can’t be serious, Mac,” says Phryne, and the mere idea of being bedbound for any length of time has brought some life back into her.

“I am.”

“What do you expect me to do for two weeks? And I haven’t any money at the moment—long story, and easily remedied if I could simply get to the bank and speak with someone—so I’ll have to stay with my parents….”

“You’ll stay here,” says Mac. There’s room enough for two in her bed, and if there’s not there is a small couch. “And if you complain about the confinement I’ll supply you with reading material. I just read a fascinating text on the uses of post-mortem examinations in criminal investigations.”

Phryne rolls her eyes.

“Oh yes, that sounds positively riveting.”

* * *

Mac knows that it is only a matter of time before Phryne wakes up, but she still finds herself bustling in and out of the hospital room to check on her all the same—breathing, heart rate, response to stimuli. Then she inevitably heads to where the rest of Phryne’s family is waiting, even though nothing has changed. But appeasing their worried faces appeases some small voice inside of her, and so it goes.

Eventually, several hours into Mac’s shift, there is a change—Phryne is awake, though not quite alert. 

“Mac?” she says hoarsely, and Mac is by her side in an instant to check her vital signs. “Did Jane… and Jack, are they…?”

“No worse the wear,” Mac says brusquely, shining a small light into Phryne’s eyes to check pupil retraction. “Jack’s got a bump on his head, according to Jane, but everyone is far more worried about you.”

“Good,” Phryne says, closing her eyes and sinking into her pillow. “And Foyle?”

“In police custody.”

Phryne nods, and years of experience tell Mac that there is something else she wants to say but is having trouble piecing the words together. She takes pity on her friend, a rare thing indeed, and moves to give her time.

“Should I go tell the others you are awake?” she asks, and Phryne’s eyes startle open and she reaches for Mac.

“No!”

Mac pats the back of Phryne’s hand soothingly.

“Alright,” she says.

“It’s… I’m not ready.”

“There’s plenty of time, Phryne. Do you want a drink?”

“Whiskey?”

Mac does her best to look unamused. “Water.”

“If I must,” Phryne says, “but it’s under duress.”

Mac moves to the pitcher of water on the bedside table, her back turned as she pours it. 

“He told me where Janey is,” Phryne says from behind her, the words found in the absence of an audience. “In a grove of weeping willows at the head of the river. It sounds… doesn’t that sound nice, Mac? If she had to…”

Mac swallows hard and closes her eyes, her own images of a small blonde girl dancing behind her eyelids.

“Janey would love it,” she says, turning around to hand Phryne the glass of water.

“She would,” Phryne agrees. “But I want to bring her home.”

“And you will,” Mac assures her. “But first, drink.”

Phryne eyes the glass skeptically, but does as she’s told. She moves her mouth around when it is done, as if only feeling it properly for the first time. When she looks at Mac again, there are tears in her eyes.

“What if he lied?” she asks. “I never thought that I would find her, but… what if he lied?”

It would devastate Phryne, to be so close and still lose. No court of human justice could compensate for that, and Mac had long ago given up believing in a divine one.

“Then we’ll keep looking, darling,” she says softly, coming to perch on the edge of the hospital bed and brushing the hair from Phryne’s forehead. “You, and me, and the rest of your family. They are worried for you.”

“I know,” Phryne says, “but I can’t bear to see them yet. Can’t bear to say it, not to anybody but you.”

Mac leans forward and kisses the crown of Phryne’s head. 

“Whenever you’re ready, they’ll be there,” she says softly. 

“And you?”

“Always,” Mac says. “But don’t let it go to your head.”

* * *

It’s dark and Mac is driving slowly, waiting for the word. 

“Just here,” Phryne says firmly, indicating an unremarkable bungalow in a street of similar ones. 

Mac stops and Phryne opens the motorcar door with her usable hand, the other held close to her side. The two women head up the garden path towards this unremarkable home, and Phryne raps loudly on the door when they arrive; after a short moment there is the sound of movement and the door opens, revealing Jack Robinson in bare feet and shirtsleeves silhouetted against the light. He tilts his head.

“Miss Fisher,” he says. “And Doctor MacMillan. It’s quite late.”

“Ahh, yes,” Phryne says, bright as anything, “we ran into a spot of trouble. You were closest.”

She raises her arm, showing off the blood-stained cravat Mac has used to bind it temporarily. Jack shakes his head and steps aside.

“Medical supplies are in the kitchen. Back of the house. Try not to bleed on the rug, it’s new.”

“Thank you, Jack,” Phryne singsongs, sashaying past him; clearly she’s had more to drink than Mac had realised. Jack rolls his eyes in exasperation, but there’s a hint of a smile on his lips.

“I’ll go fetch a towel,” he says, “and you can…”

“Thank you,” Mac says, more sincerely than Phryne’s flirtations. “She was doing the right thing.”

“She usually is.”

He heads into another room—to retrieve a towel, Mac presumes—and Mac follows the sound of a singing Phryne into the brightly lit kitchen. It’s a cozy room, and Phryne has hopped onto the table and is swinging her legs.

“Third drawer on the left,” she says, and Mac raises a questioning eyebrow. “There is a small possibility I once burnt myself cooking breakfast.”

“Ahh,” Mac replies, retrieving the small but well-stocked kit. “He’s either brave or foolish, letting you loose in his kitchen.”

Phryne giggles. 

“Can I tell you a secret?” she asks in a stage whisper. “It’s because he loves me.” 

“So I’d gathered. Budge up, let me see this in the light.”

The gash is not quite as deep as Mac had initially feared, and by the time Jack has returned with a towel she has it cleaned and bandaged. The man stands somewhat awkwardly, as if he is the intruder in his own home, and Mac rolls her eyes again.

“You’ll live, but I think perhaps it’s best if you have company for the night. I presume you have no objections, Jack?”

It’s a flimsy excuse when Phryne has a household full of staff at her disposal, but he nods and heads to another cupboard, quickly mixing a powder and handing the glass to Phryne.

“For when the numbing effects of the alcohol wears off,” he says. “Then I’ll take you to bed.”

“Why, Jack, how forward!” Phryne purrs, and to Mac’s astonishment—she is well aware of Phryne Fisher’s general effect on men—he looks at her levelly.

“I don’t see you getting out of that dress one-handed, Miss Fisher, even if you were sober. Which you clearly are not.”

Phryne pouts, but quickly downs the medicine and holds her arms out as if demanding he carry her. Which he does despite some muttered protests, and Mac finds herself suppressing a smile as she tidies away the supplies. In a few short minutes the kit is returned to the drawer and Jack is back, carrying two tumblers of whiskey.

“A thank you,” he says, offering her one.

“Is she settled?”

“Asleep before I turned off the light,” he confirms. “What happened?”

Mac takes a sip of whiskey, contemplating what to say and finally settling on the truth. 

“We were leaving an establishment of questionable legality when we heard a scuffle in the alleyway. Phryne exercised her usual restraint—” Jack’s lips twitch at this, and Mac finds herself laughing despite the circumstances. “The man had cornered a woman and was a little too friendly. She chased him off, but not before the man caught her with a broken bottle. It’s not serious, but it looked nasty. Not that she’d let me have a look until she’d made sure the girl was set to rights and reported the incident to a patrolling constable, of course.”

“Of course.”

There are very few people who know the Phryne that Mac does, but the man before her is one of them and there is a certain degree of inherent solidarity between them in that fact. There are any number of things that she could say in this moment; Phryne’s championing of the underdog, her cleverness, her irresistible nature. But it is a sentimental thought, and they are not sentimental people. So she shrugs instead, and trusts him to understand.

“There are days I wonder why I didn’t have the sense to run the other way when I saw her coming,” she says dryly.

“Now doctor,” Jack reprimands, smirking from behind his glass, “where would be the fun in that?”


End file.
